


'cause there's beauty in the breakdown

by Psythe



Series: Dave/Rose kinkmeme shorts [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Nightmares, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Trauma, Vaginal Sex, the point is that they love each other, the sex isn't really the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psythe/pseuds/Psythe
Summary: You thread his white-blond strands between your fingers, straw spun into gold - his hair is so fine, you want to make it into thread and knit it into an awful, hideous, embarrassing,utterlywarm, comfortable sweater that you could put on and never have to take off. You run your nails across his scalp like he’s a troll and you’re reaching for his hot buttons.“I want to wear you like a sweater,” you slur into his face.It’s very possible that that sounded a lot more dramatic and passionate inside your fevered, still-half-dreaming head.





	'cause there's beauty in the breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> kinkmeme prompt #85 - "wake up In the middle of the night and have sex (then go back to sleep)"

You gasp.

It hurts. Your throat is dry and the air is cold against it. Your mouth tastes vile. Pain sparks in your midsection as air floods into your lungs, filling them to bursting. They strain at the encasing limitation of your ribcage, threatening to splinter it and escape.

You’re breathing.

You aren’t dead.

But, you can’t be sure of that. You can still feel the anticipatory pain, a phantom of a phantom and yet absolutely, unquestionably real in the way that the things that bubble up from the depths of your anxiety spirals always are, three points emplaced in your chest. Kanaya is dead. John is on the ground, probably dead. You can’t even see Roxy (not again, you can’t lose her again).

And the others - Dave - it might still happen, they might win, they might have put their own opponent down with aplomb and panache and then rushed to your rescue, you can still almost see the hallucinated version of him, cape billowing out behind him, making him look dramatic and absolutely heroic, hurtling confidently to his death at the hands of the same witch who has just murdered you-

There’s a warm hand on your arm. It clasps tight. You gasp again and turn your head.

He’s right there. He is not wearing his Knightly garb and mantle. He’s wearing that idiotic neon-grey-and-pink boy band t-shirt (The one he claims he only owns because it’s comfortable to sleep in). He’s not wearing his sunglasses. You can see his eyes, just barely, by the tiny amount of moonlight coming in through the slats between the shades.

“Rose?” he says. His voice is still groggy. His hand is so warm. He is not dead. “‘Sup?”

He is not dead. You are not dead.

“...same shit?” he asks.

You roll over and push yourself on your elbow and shove yourself towards him, trying to burrow into his chest cavity. “Same shit,” you whisper.

He slides his arms around you and holds you, very tight and firm. (By now he knows not to treat you gently.)

You’re still shaking. You can physically feel the shape of your heart thudding beneath your breast. “Buncha BS,” Dave is mumbling. “Fuckin a-hole brains reacting to experiences that we have and documenting ‘em for future recollection. Times like this I wanna go have a word with our neurocircuitry and be like ‘hey guys, you know you don’t have to be so Goddamn professional all the time, you can take a couple nights off every now and then, I don’t need to be havin’ the most significant moments of my life on call every fuckin second, really, for serious, it’s fine,”

You laugh a small, unsteady laugh. He’s here, and rambling, and saying things that are not really terribly helpful, but that doesn’t matter, they’re ridiculous but you understand exactly what he means, he understands you, he knows who you are.

It’s not enough. You can still feel those three points pulsating just above the relentless cardiac thumping, implicit in its threat to puncture the skin and pierce through to your heart. He’s warm and here and stupid and endlessly digressive and not dead and that means no one else is dead and you’re not dead but it’s not enough-

“-like a daylight savings time thing, that’s a better use of daylight savings time than actual daylight savings time, no offense Ben but we don’t need to save on candles anymore - but my mental health vial could use some fuckin econ-” You clamp your mouth onto his and cut him off. He yelps but you don’t stop. You must have been sleeping with your mouth open, and you haven’t been asleep long enough, that’s why your mouth tastes so terrible. It can’t be a great experience for Dave.

You really don’t care. You need More, you need to feel More. You push yourself further onto him, you wrap your arms around him, you tangle your legs up with his. Your subconscious doesn’t believe yet. You have to feel all of him. “Rose,” he’s trying to say, but you just keep kissing him, envelop him like a serpent and squeeze, you feel your limbs describe the outline of his frame, your nails dig into his back, your breasts compress themselves against his chest, you press your thigh between his legs and feel him already half-hard. You silhouette him with your body. “Rose, uh,” He babbles. He tips gently onto his back.

Still not enough, your underbrain whispers, desperate and parched, half-remembered dream-terror still only barely releasing its icy grasp on your heart. You thread his white-blond strands between your fingers, straw spun into gold - his hair is so fine, you want to make it into thread and knit it into an awful, hideous, embarrassing, utterly warm, comfortable sweater that you could put on and never have to take off. You run your nails across his scalp like he’s a troll and you’re reaching for his hot buttons.

“I want to wear you like a sweater,” you slur into his face.

It’s very possible that that sounded a lot more dramatic and passionate inside your fevered, still-half-dreaming head.

“Rose, uh,” he tries to say, “I’m not actually complaining about havin’ you all up in my business and touching me and stuff, that’s like the favored national pastime of my business, you touching me and also me touching you would basically be my dream job if that was a sustainaBL-” he squeaks as you rub your leg against his stiffening dick. “But I mean just what’s goin’ on here, it’s all good, everything’s good, you’re right here-”

“It’s not enough,” you whisper. If you were a character you were writing, it’d be easy, or at least a challenge you’d enjoy, to communicate out loud what’s wrong and what you need. Instead you grab him by the face and kiss him again, one more time, as long and deep as you can until your lungs burn and seize your brain by the stem and demand that you pause for air.

You clutch at his boxers. Your fingers find his erection, which draws another high-pitched little squeak from his lips, and you squeeze it a few times through the cotton before you haul them down and out of the way. You grab it again and start working him. His dick is hot, that’s one of the things about him that’s marvelous to you, how warm he always is. Lube or oil would take much too long, you need to feel him right this second so you just lift yourself up and hold onto his hard rod at the base and spear yourself on him.

It’s uncomfortable. You aren’t particularly turned on, just frantic and needy, so there’s not much lubrication. You don’t care. Discomfort is still feeling. And Dave makes the most wonderful little strangled gasp as your vaginal muscles clench around him. You can just see his mouth moving in the dimness of the room. You need to see more of it. You need him in all of your senses, that’s the proof your still-frightened under-brain demands. There’s a pop of digital light and a tiny rush of air and one of your wands is in your hands, swishing to bring the simplest of Light magicks into being. The glowing orb illuminates Dave in a magnificent snapshot, alarm (you suppose at the fact that you’re brandishing a sharp object while sitting on him) mixed with arousal, his lips pulled back over his clenched teeth, his face flushed bright pink, his gorgeous scarlet eyes blown wide and round like dying suns.

You put the wand away and splay one of your hands out on his chest, soaking up the warmth of him with your palms and the pads of your fingers. The other one goes between your legs and starts to work roughly at your clit, and you start to pant shallowly as you move atop him.

His hand slides over yours, his digit alongside your own (yours are only a smidge more delicate) and you stroke your clit together. “Aah,” you mouth. He’s shaking and gulping for breath, starting to push himself back up into you, whatever mania has followed you back from the  
dream-world beginning to possess him in turn, and you pull him all the way into it with you.

Dave’s hands are on your breasts, you feel the roughness of his thumbs on your nipples and it’s a struggle to keep your eyes open so that you can keep his beautiful, maniac face in view as hot desire sparkles across your skin. The graininess of the foreign object in your pussy starts to dissolve into wet heat, delicious friction. You chase it, you tense your thighs and squeeze his dick inside you and he groans outright, loud and wanton. You feel like you can perceive every vein and irregularity of his cock inside you. You feel every inch of him.

You start to roll your hips, rhythmic and unrelenting, massaging him with the action of your vaginal muscles. It’s not about sex. It’s about feedback. It’s about seeing the look on his face as he loses control of himself, it’s about watching him surrender to the compulsion of his dick and start to thrust up into you harder and harder. It’s about you making enough of an impact on the world to feel real, in the form of this lovely boy wanting you. Needing you.

He’s unprepared, he hasn’t had time to assemble any kind of mental apparatus, he’s putty in your hands (or, rather, in your pussy), so he doesn’t last long. He looks up at you, his eyes wide with worship as you feel his thrusts reach a threshold, and you force yours to stay open so you can see his face as he comes inside you.

His face is tight, his eyes go glassy, he seems to be staring directly through you, like his gaze is boring through your torso. His mouth falls open. His grip on your breasts tightens until it’s painful while the movements of his dick inside you get smaller and smaller until it’s just twitching up and down and finally, you get what you wanted. You get the sight of him, completely unguarded, his muscles slackening as he melts into the bed, absolutely open to you in every way, as he is at your moments of closest intimacy, like these.

You lean forward, slowly, almost falling on top of him. Your arms slide around him again as you lay your head on his chest. You can hear the drumroll of his racing heart. You did that, you tell yourself. He is right here. He is not dead.

This time, you believe yourself when you say it.

The warm weight of his arms folds over your back and buttocks. You smirk into his pectorals as he gropes you a little bit. The dream-terror is gone, for now, banished to the black matter of your brain. At least until the next nightmare. But for now everything is just … warm. Dave is warm under you and inside you and around you, the blankets are warm from both of your body heat. Your cold sweat has been replaced with warm.

“Couldn’t live without it till my morning wood, huh,” Dave says. His voice is hoarse.

“Shut up,” you mumble against his chest.

His hand on your ass wanders lower and quests at the fork of your legs. “That was, uh. Kinda fast,” he sounds embarrassed. “You didn’t, uh…”

“No.” You don’t know how to explain what the fuck that was actually about. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

He’s so adorable, devoted like a puppy. He’s so attentive. You nod awkwardly. “It’s fine.” His fingers withdraw, and silence descends, warm and blessed.

“...do you, uh,” he breaks the companionable doldrum of your shared breathing, “...do you wanna talk about it?”

You let the light above you fade. “...maybe tomorrow,” you murmur. You roll off of him and nestle against his side, nudging him over towards the edge of the bed, until your head rests on the same pillow as his. He gives way, mumbling long-winded protestations through and through.

You let his words settle over you like a warm blanket. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Maybe tomorrow. Probably definitely tomorrow. Christ,” he descends into sleepy inarticulation. You must have tired him out. Your pussy tingles where it’s still half full of his cum. You need a shower, but you’re too tired and comfortable. So you just wrap yourself back around him, as sleep rises back up to claim you both and pull you back down from this corybantic interlude.

Next time, maybe it’ll be him that awakens in horror, at something half-remembered and long-gone, a ghost of your long and torturous road to this wonderful point.

And next time, it’ll be you that’s there for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Elendraug to helping me finish this goddamn thing. If we can't have executive function we can at least have word sprints.


End file.
